Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2015-11-08 01:45 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2015-11-08 01:45 am
Entry tags:
- ! open,
- { adelaide leblanc },
- { alayre sauveterre },
- { araceli bonaventura },
- { beleth ashara },
- { bruce banner },
- { cyril ashara },
- { eirlys ancarrow },
- { ellana ashara },
- { galadriel },
- { gavin ashara },
- { gorse hissera-iss },
- { jamie mccrimmon },
- { korrin ataash },
- { lace harding },
- { maria hill },
- { maxwell trevean },
- { pel },
- { sabriel },
- { salvatore },
- { samouel gareth },
- { varric tethras },
- { zevran arainai }
THE FALLOW MIRE
WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The Inquisition sends forces to the Fallow Mire to deal with undead, plague, and missing scouts.
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: The Fallow Mire: Inquisition camps, Fisher's End, The Tavern, etc.
NOTES: For more information about the setting and RP opportunities in it, check out the OOC Post.
WHAT: The Inquisition sends forces to the Fallow Mire to deal with undead, plague, and missing scouts.
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: The Fallow Mire: Inquisition camps, Fisher's End, The Tavern, etc.
NOTES: For more information about the setting and RP opportunities in it, check out the OOC Post.
The trip down the mountains from Skyhold is no walk in the park, and south of the Hinterlands the land turns wet and miserable, subject to seemingly endless storms. Villagers have tried to carve out a meagre existence in the Fallow Mire, but their lives are under constant threat by a tidal wave of undead rising from the murky waters flooding much of the region.
The Inquisition has sent a sizeable force, and travel back and forth between the Mire and Skyhold happens as often and as quickly as conditions allow. The camp is a neat patch of tents on the largest bit of dry land to be found. "Dry" is relative; everything's still pretty muddy. There are several clusters of tents, tucked between rock outcroppings and abandoned buildings, the least leaky of which are being used to store what supplies the Inquisition has managed to haul in over the difficult terrain. Campfires are numerous and fill the area with a constant smouldering glow and low-hanging cloud of smoke that mingles with the morning and evening fogs. It's lovely, really.
Fisher's End barely even counts as a village-- just a haphazard handful of ramshackle buildings perched on the edge of the swamp-- but it does have a single tavern. It's a dreary-looking wooden shack like every other structure in the area, distinguishable only by the lamp still lit above the door and the sign that swings creakily in the breeze. Whatever was painted on it has long since worn away and been molded over. The place is just known as "the tavern" because it is literally the only tavern for miles and miles around.
Inside is dim and smoky from peat-burning fires in the two grates. There are a half-dozen tables with benches, none of which ever seem quite level on the uneven floor. The bar is tended by Thorolf, a grizzled bearded fellow with a local accent so thick he's almost unintelligible. No matter the time of day he serves a simple fisherman's meal of hard bread, salted fish, and a hunk of strong cheese. His cellar is stocked with exactly three varieties of alcohol: one ale, one wine, and one spirit, all of which are strong and dark. There aren't many locals left, but there are usually a few hunched over a mug or huddled around the fire.
The Inquisition has sent a sizeable force, and travel back and forth between the Mire and Skyhold happens as often and as quickly as conditions allow. The camp is a neat patch of tents on the largest bit of dry land to be found. "Dry" is relative; everything's still pretty muddy. There are several clusters of tents, tucked between rock outcroppings and abandoned buildings, the least leaky of which are being used to store what supplies the Inquisition has managed to haul in over the difficult terrain. Campfires are numerous and fill the area with a constant smouldering glow and low-hanging cloud of smoke that mingles with the morning and evening fogs. It's lovely, really.
Fisher's End barely even counts as a village-- just a haphazard handful of ramshackle buildings perched on the edge of the swamp-- but it does have a single tavern. It's a dreary-looking wooden shack like every other structure in the area, distinguishable only by the lamp still lit above the door and the sign that swings creakily in the breeze. Whatever was painted on it has long since worn away and been molded over. The place is just known as "the tavern" because it is literally the only tavern for miles and miles around.
Inside is dim and smoky from peat-burning fires in the two grates. There are a half-dozen tables with benches, none of which ever seem quite level on the uneven floor. The bar is tended by Thorolf, a grizzled bearded fellow with a local accent so thick he's almost unintelligible. No matter the time of day he serves a simple fisherman's meal of hard bread, salted fish, and a hunk of strong cheese. His cellar is stocked with exactly three varieties of alcohol: one ale, one wine, and one spirit, all of which are strong and dark. There aren't many locals left, but there are usually a few hunched over a mug or huddled around the fire.
there are gags for that.
You'd enjoy that wouldn't you?
Oh. Ooooh.
Well suddenly the bog doesn't feel as cold, and Sam turns back around to invade eye contact. "Ah." It's not the best response, but how is he supposed to respond to that? Well time in the tent was going to be interesting.
At least the subject turns to Antiva. Or he hopes they're talking about that. "Ferelden must be drastically different to that then."
It'd be such a good look for you.
What is it about Fereldans and being quite so prudish? He will never understand.
Still he shall take the change in subject in stride- and twist it right back into innuendo. See if he can't get Sam to sputter like Alistair. "Well, it does have it's charms. The countryside is quite lovely when not mired in fog and rain, the people quite friendly, and the men? Mmm. Quite handsome."
I only do fine silk.
The second pole goes up even quicker than the first and Sam moves to start on the next one.
And now they were on handsome men. This conversation was turning out to be a lot less like the other ones they had had. He had no idea what to expect. Well at least he could handle this better. Hopefully?
"You said that about Antivan men too. You meet handsome men every where you go?"
No leather?
Perhaps that will make this easier on him.
"Do you not find men handsome? Should I speak of gorgeous women instead?"
Hm. Only if it's Antivan.
"No," he says, a look of confusion crossing his face at the question. Actually, that answer probably wasn't clear enough. "I find plenty men handsome," he gives a small chuckle at that, going back to his work with a shake of his head. "One in particular," he says as an after thought, though it was obvious that he hadn't thought that part out very much. "Though women aren't bad either, don't get me wrong."
A man of fine standards.
"Oh, this should be good. Who?" One in particular is always promising.
I learn from the best.
"Who what?" That has Sam tilting his head though his concentrating is still on the last pole. It takes him a moment to realize he had said something, which was what Zevran was referring to. For a few moments Sam doesn't say anything, the blush still there, clearly thinking about if he should say anything.
"Ah... Krem?" His voice lowers a good amount when he says the man's name, trying his best not to smile, and succeeding for the most part. It's still rather new, and he's not sure just where things are going, but... he's happy. It feels good to admit it, but it has him blushing a bit harder.
A most excellent student indeed
That is more than mere lust at work- that is infatuation. Sam is quite new to all of this but it does give Zevran pause when the name is mumbled. Krem.
Krem, krem- ah.
"The marvelous hunk of manhood that is the Iron Bull's second in command?"
Hard to come by though
Sam is done with the last post when Zevran tries to clarify who Krem is, making the Mage turn a brighter red with a bit of sputtering. Marvelous hunk- Sam sighs heavily at that and rubs his eyes. Well he supposed that was one way to describe Krem. "That would be the one, yes."
So true, alas
"How long have you been- ah. How was it Alistair put it? Wooing Krem?"
Thanks for the invite. Aren't we sharing a tent?
At the mention of Alistair, Sam raises a brow, though decides not to touch on it at the moment. Changing subjects obviously wasn't going to save him any. "Ah... wooing?" Was that what he was doing? "... Give or take a couple weeks?"
twice over!
Still, the matter at hand. Krem. Sam. Wooing. For almost a month now. "Have you exchanged tender words? Kisses? Steamy nights in his bed?"
I do like doing things twice
Probably should have, it might have saved him from the '20 questions'. Taking a seat on the ground, Sam blinks at the line of questions, the last one adding another layer of red to his face. "We've only kissed a few times..." He doesn't answer the other two, obviously having done neither, especially the latter one. He didn't even know where Krem's bed was.
bow chicka
Here, perhaps, he could help.
*winks*
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"I'd assume you'd start off with compliments? And I highly doubt I qualify as 'pure'."
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Enticing things. All of that was a bit hard when said man wore armor for most of the times he saw him. "I take it that casual contact is supposed to be done skin to skin?" Sam is pretty sure he knows the answer, but why not ask questions and just let Zevran teach him? He's still blushing by all this, but he's always been curious about learning about new things. This certainly qualified.
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